


A Slow Thaw

by 1863



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Anniversary, Developing Relationship, M/M, Memories, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21626371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: It takes some time, but Viggo gets there in the end.
Relationships: Avi/Viggo Tarasov
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34
Collections: 300bpm Flash Exchange November 2019





	A Slow Thaw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NeverwinterThistle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/gifts).



> Prompt: [Call It What You Want - Taylor Swift](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V54CEElTF_U).

Viggo rests one hand on the railing and takes a drag from his cigarette with the other, staring out at the city far, far below. Decades worth of work and sacrifice, he thinks to himself, of blood and sweat and tears — some his own, some he’d forcibly ripped from others — are what brought him here, to this terrace, to this exact moment in time. What lifted him up from nothing to become a king in a castle made of glass and concrete and steel.

It's been ten years to the day. Viggo’s phone buzzed with the reminder during breakfast that morning, which he’d taken here, on the terrace, alone. Despite Avi being the reason for the reminder it was a relief that he wasn’t there to see it, when the meaning behind what popped up onscreen truly sunk in: _1724: одно десятилетие_. 

The words might be gibberish to him but Avi would have no such trouble reading the look on Viggo’s face, and then Viggo would be at an immediate — and fatal — loss. Avi would sense blood in the water and immediately switch to lawyer mode, coaxing the truth out with such relentless skill that even Viggo Tarasov, Pakhan of the Western Bratva, would be unable to defend himself against it. 

Viggo smiles a little despite himself. He turns and leans back against the railing, smile widening when he hears a faint stream of muttered cursing from somewhere inside the apartment. A light flickers on and a silhouette he’d recognise anywhere suddenly appears — slim and suited and holding a cigarette of his own. Avi drops back into the seat at the kitchen table and the sound of rapid typing starts up again, occasionally punctuated by yet more swearing. 

There was a time when this seemed wholly impossible — a pointless, juvenile daydream that didn’t even exist in movies or books, much less real life, and Viggo had inured himself to it long ago. He grew up, after all, in a grey place, a hard place: caged by slabs of concrete and pressed down by leaden skies, the ground beneath him frozen solid with a cold that spread everywhere, and crept into everything, as insidious and silent as the best the Table had to offer. And the ice found Viggo too, seeped into his skin and crawled through his veins, armoured his bones until, eventually, his very heart froze solid too. 

And so it was, and always would be, even when he left that grey place for one that was so different, so full of colour and life, that it had at first been dizzying. 

Or so Viggo believed it always would be. 

He watches Avi light another cigarette, absently rubbing his temple as he peers at something on his laptop. It will start getting dark out on the terrace soon but Viggo makes no move to go inside, content to wait until Avi finishes his work. He’ll come out as soon as he’s done, Viggo knows, and he’ll complain loudly about how cold Viggo’s hands have become, and will call Viggo creepy for standing alone out here in the gloom. And then perhaps Viggo will push his hands into Avi’s shirt in retaliation, and Avi will let him do it anyway, and then maybe… maybe Viggo might show him the reminder on his phone. Perhaps he’ll even translate what it means. 

Viggo stubs out what’s left of his cigarette. It wouldn’t be that far a leap, not really. After all, it’s not as though he doesn’t translate almost everything for Avi already. 

It’s strange to think of a time what that wasn’t the case, when Avi would never have asked him to speak in English or called him anything but _Mr Tarasov_ or _sir_. It’s stranger still to think of how close he came to not even having that, when the cold in his bones prompted him to behave in ways that still make him close his eyes with shame. The regret tastes like ashes in his mouth, and Viggo tastes it again when he lights another cigarette and forces himself to remember. It seems appropriate, today of all days, to make sure he never forgets.

“Bullshit, Viggo.” Avi’s voice was flat. “That’s the most bullshit excuse I’ve ever heard. And I’m a lawyer, so I’ve heard a lot of them in my time.”

Viggo said nothing.

“You want to fuck around, fine. We’re not…” Avi trailed off. “We’re not anything, apparently.” Viggo’s jaw tightened at that, but he stubbornly stayed silent. “You want to fire me, fine. You want to have me shot in the head — that’s fine too. But don’t pretend you’re doing it because I’m not any good at my job.” Avi took a breath and something flickered in his eyes, there for barely a heartbeat before being ruthlessly suppressed. “You wanted me to find you like that. You wanted me to see you. With him. You planned it, and timed it, and the only reason you did it was so that you could have this bullshit excuse to send me away.” 

Avi looked him in the eye, unflinching and unafraid. Or at least, unafraid of Viggo Tarasov, Russian mob boss. Of _Viggo_ , however — Viggo the man, his friend and colleague and — 

Viggo couldn’t even bring himself to finish the thought. 

Of that man, Avi wasafraid. Not for his life, perhaps, but for something far less tangible — and far, far more vulnerable.

“I get it, Viggo,” Avi said. “I understand.” His voice was thick with every word he knew Viggo refused to hear. “But I don’t need you to save me.”

When Viggo finally spoke, his own voice was hoarse, unaccustomed to being used to speak of things buried so deeply, things left abandoned and frozen for so, so long. 

“What _do_ you need, then?” 

Avi shrugged, the casual movement at odds with the terrifyingly serious look in his eyes.

“I guess I just need you to say yes.” 

And in the end, despite the cold inside that still made him shiver, despite all the mistakes that suggested history would just repeat itself, again and again and again — 

— in the end, Viggo made a different choice. And with a single word that end began to reshape itself, and against all reason Viggo found that it was shockingly, infinitely warm.

"Jesus, Viggo,” Avi swears now, pulling the terrace doors all the way open and stepping outside. “Why the hell are you lurking around out there in the dark? It’s freezing out here.”

Viggo suppresses a smile. 

“It’s not my fault that you took so long to finish working.”

“Uh, actually, it _is_ your fault,” Avi retorts. “Those are your contracts I just spent all day drafting. Contracts that you told me had to be ready by tomorrow’s meeting with Petrov.” 

“I appreciate your efforts,” Viggo replies. His voice is not quite the faintly amused that he aimed for; too shaded with his earlier thoughts, too quiet with old memories.

Avi frowns a little. 

“You’ve been out here all day,” he says slowly. “In the cold. You sound like you might be coming down with something.”

Viggo recognises this for the offer it is — a ready-made excuse laid out for him to take, like so many others Avi has given him before. 

“Perhaps,” Viggo agrees, not too proud to take it. He thinks of the last ten years, of what they’ve both risked and given up and gained, and as if on cue Viggo’s phone pings with another reminder, the insistent beep saving him from having to elaborate. 

“What’s that about?” Avi asks, watching closely as Viggo pulls his phone out and checks the screen. 

It’s 5.24pm. 1724. A decade to the day — to the actual, exact minute — that he said yes.

“Just an alarm,” Viggo replies, still staring at the screen.

“For?”

“Something I wanted to remember.” He lifts his head and smiles a little. “I made dinner reservations for six o’clock.” 

“Thank god for that,” Avi says. “I’m _starving_. I had to skip lunch to finish all those contracts, you know.”

“I know.” He pauses, but only briefly. “You see? I may expect the impossible, but I do my best to provide a commensurate reward.” 

Avi stares at him for a moment, then steps closer — much closer. 

“You’re forgetting something, though.” His hands are warm against Viggo’s hips.

“Am I?” Viggo asks. Avi nods.

“I’ve been here a long time, Viggo. You should know by now that nothing’s impossible for me. At least, not when you’re the one asking me to do it.” The corner of his mouth lifts, the way it does when he’s in court or a meeting and about to land some fatal verbal blow. “So — do _you_ see? You’re not giving me any rewards. You’re just... giving.”

Viggo runs his gaze over Avi’s face, over the lines around his mouth and under his eyes, over the the hint of grey in his newly-grown stubble. They’d both been well into middle age by the time they met, and there are still days when Viggo feels every second of the years that have passed him by. But looking at Avi now, today, ten years after they — 

Viggo doesn’t feel young, exactly, but he does feel almost... renewed. 

He slips his hands under Avi’s suit jacket.

“Your hands are cold,” Avi complains, just as Viggo knew he would. 

“How fortunate, then,” Viggo replies, “that you are quite warm.”

“Thief,” Avi mutters, but when he doesn’t pull away Viggo is quite certain the shiver he feels against his palms has nothing to do with the chill in the air.

“We should go,” he says, not without a little regret. The thought of stealing more of Avi’s heat — preferably without the barrier of clothing — is rather appealing. “We’ll be late for our reservation.”

Avi nods. “Sure.” 

Viggo lets his hands drop and steps past him, towards the terrace doors. He’s almost out of reach when Avi calls him back.

“Viggo.” 

“Yes?” he starts to say, turning around again, only for Avi to suddenly grab his tie and yank him forward. And then the word is cut off by Avi’s familiar mouth, stolen by his quick tongue, drowned out by his gasps and little hitching moans. Avi kisses him like he’s been thinking about doing it all day, but it’s not — that’s not what pulls Viggo in and drags him under, not what makes him utterly powerless to resist. 

It’s the faint tremor in Avi’s fingers against his face; the way Avi’s other hand is still clutched so tightly around his tie. Avi is trying to tell him something, something important and urgent and inarguably true, and Viggo cannot deny that he understands, now, exactly what it is. 

They’re both out of breath by the time Avi breaks the kiss. Viggo can feel him panting against his jaw when Avi leans in even closer and whispers, right into his ear:

“Here’s to another ten, yeah?”

There’s a smile in Avi’s eyes when he leans back again, just far enough to see Viggo’s face. And it’s that, more than the kiss, that makes Viggo need to take a moment to find his voice again. 

Avi’s hands slide down, fixing Viggo’s tie and smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt. He doesn’t press for an answer — just like the day a decade ago, when he told Viggo all he needed was a yes. Viggo knows that Avi has always understood that there are some answers he needs some time to give. 

But now, ten years later, Viggo finds he doesn’t need quite as much anymore. 

“Да.” 

Avi’s hands go still against his chest. He's quiet for some time and when he finally speaks, it's not what Viggo expected. “I’ll get your coat,” is all he says, before he starts to turn away. “I’ll see you downstairs.” 

Viggo grabs his wrist. “I won’t be long.” He pauses for a moment. “I’ll meet you there, Avi.”

He’s surprised when Avi just laughs at him, fond and amused and above all, warm. 

“Yeah,” Avi says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I know.” 

But more surprising than Avi’s laughter is that now, ten years later, Viggo knows that too.


End file.
